


of gasoline, airplane, human ash.

by astoryaboutwar



Category: Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012), Inception (2010)
Genre: Arkham, Arson, Artistic license abounds, Crazy bbs in love, Gotham, Hedonistic murder and criminal activity, Killing shouldn't be this hot, M/M, Non-Graphic Torture, Sort-of The Dark Knight crossover, This is not how healthy relationships work guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astoryaboutwar/pseuds/astoryaboutwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>At this hour, what is dead is restless<br/>and what is living is burning.</i><br/>(This Hour and What Is Dead, Li-Young Lee)</p><p><i>The world’s burning anyway, Arthur darling</i>, Eames told him once, on the rooftop of their old apartment, staring out into the night sky. Gotham’s desperate cry was in the sky, white light blaring into the clouds like man-made angel brightness from the world’s most hellish city. Oh the irony, Gotham will never learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of gasoline, airplane, human ash.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [green_postit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/gifts).



> Gift!fic for my sadly overworked and incredibly busy boobear [primavera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/primavera), who is also the world's most amazing beta/cheerleader/soundboard. I'M SORRY I FAIL AT WRITING BANE/TALIA. I tried, I really did. :(
> 
> Go give her some love, she writes so much better than I do.
> 
> Title taken from _This Hour and What Is Dead_ by the poet Li-Young Lee.

 

Insanity, Arthur’s found, is a highly subjective thing. 

All these crazed-frying-leaping pulses hopping from synapse to synapse; genius on one person and madness on another, good Lord he’s a muttering nutter, no, he’s a pondering savant.

What does Arthur know, anyway, he’s on the wrong side of Arkham’s rust-flaking bars.

Gotham, it’s alright, you can sleep easy tonight, the crazies are tucked up tight, strait-jacketed and cattle-prodded. No cause for great alarm, Arkham’s got you safe.

It’s a nice illusion to maintain; sometimes the inmates help, they’re all good citizens of Gotham like that, and Arthur’s one of them too, really, would he lie to you? Of course he wouldn’t. He’s insane, not a liar, there’s a difference, he’ll have you know.

Eames, though - Eames is both, but that’s okay, we can’t all be perfect, no one is.

The good doctors of Arkham (and Arthur giggles, because _doctor,_ haha, they’ve got Dr. Quinzel and Dr. Crane too, do they count?) say he’s a paranoid schizophrenic with a side helping of OCD and ADD, which is bullshit, it’s like they had no idea what they were doing so they just threw a bunch of letters together. Arthur likes it, though, the alphabets come together like his own twisted ABC, all wrong and repetitive and nonsensical.

They say Eames has multiple personality disorder, the whole world in one man, a dozen homicidal people mixed up in a single body hot as sin and just as bad. Well, maybe not the last part - that’s all Arthur’s thinking, but you know it’s true. 

Arthur likes Eames. He’s the only one who knew Arthur before they found their home (and it _is,_ Arkham is home to Gotham’s finest and brightest, no one ever said being fine and bright had to mean you were _good),_ and they get along like a house on fire, and that’s wonderful.

He knows Eames’s first name, just like Eames knows his last, but they’ll carry those secrets to their highly likely early graves, those secrets are the best kind. Don’t bother doing anything you wouldn’t die for, that’s their philosophy, it’s gotten them this far.

_The world’s burning anyway, Arthur darling,_ Eames told him once, on the rooftop of their old apartment, staring out into the night sky. Gotham’s desperate cry was in the sky, white light blaring into the clouds like man-made angel brightness from the world’s most hellish city. Oh the irony, Gotham will never learn.

They’d fucked to the wailing screams of Arkham’s sirens, police cars screeching in the distance, and it’d been a beautiful symphony they’d wanted to hear over and over again, so they did, but Arthur’s not going to tell you how, it’s their little secret.

The Arkham staff fears them, and the interns are told to give them a wide berth. Arthur thinks it’s nice, the special treatment Eames and him get here. VIPs and all that. He doesn’t really get it though, why they’re set apart from the rest of Arkham’s residents. It’s not like Eames and him have done anything _that_ extreme, they’ve got the Joker and Riddler and Crane and Harvey Two-Face for the serious stuff, and that’s not even counting Penguin and Poison Ivy and Harlequin. Arthur only dismembered an intern for looking at Eames the wrong way, and Eames threw an orderly off the roof for manhandling Arthur, and those aren’t too bad, are they? (They really aren’t, alright, they aren’t.)

But either way, it’s always nice to hear what the staff has to say about the both of them; they’ve all got a pool going on about how Eames and him got to Arkham in the first place, it’s so interesting to see what other people think about you, serial killer or doomsday bringer or rampaging murderer, so flavourful.

_Those two, they’ll butcher ya alive, I tell ya,_ he overhears the Warden telling a fresh-faced intern one Monday morning, and Arthur makes it a point to give that new boy his sweetest smile come rec room time.

(They’re not _monsters,_ you know _._ )

Arthur hums _ABC_ under his breath.

 

 

 

 

 

It gets boring in Arkham sometimes, so Arthur orchestrates a break-out, it’s all fun and drama on those days, and their team always wins. Eames and him leave Arkham for a couple of weeks, sometimes a month or two or three, and Gotham’s their playground during those periods, their personal sandbox of creativity and mayhem.

Life’s good.

The papers get confused about them; they don’t blow up kindergardens or hospitals or elderly homes, the headlines think they’re criminals with ethics, what a joke, everything’s a joke, Arthur laughs and shows it to Eames, and they smile and kiss and fuck over balled-up papers, the ink smearing over and onto their sweaty skin. It’s simple, see - they don’t kill those that can’t fight back, where’s the fun in that?

(It’s all very _logical,_ it’s hardly _senseless_ killing like the papers say _._ )

They run into Gotham’s Dark Knight too, say their hellos in their own fashion, bombs and gunfire and lovely car chases, it’s all very cordial. He’s got the tech and weapons, very nice, but they’ve got friends in places high and low, and one man (one Devil) will never match up to the resources of many, boohoo for him. But it’s okay, he tried, Arthur and Eames can give him effort points, they understand. 

(The world’s burning, anyway, and one man isn’t enough to put it out.)

They love Arkham, but these time-outs are nice too, no one recognises them on the street. Eames can stroll into his favourite tea salon for a face-kicking Lapsung Souchong, Arthur can eat Gotham’s best pretzels on the corner of Fourth and Browning. It’s as normal as they’ll ever get, insanity or no. _Just because we’re nuts doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy a good vacation like the next person,_ Eames likes to complain.

If their friends are out like they are, they have little get-together parties, ferry boats for ransom and stations sitting on a metric ton of explosives in between lunches at the Joker’s and tea with Dr. Crane. Eames has a soft spot for the Joker; they’ve got the same sense of humour and the friendship goes both ways, craziness aplenty. Eames will paint and the Joker’ll do card tricks, sometimes they’ll do it on the streets and the town will be red, red, red, how delightful. 

They never forget their customary visit to the Commissioner either, no, he’s their very special friend, one’s got to keep up relations, y’know? He’s a good guy, Arthur thinks, if a little misguided, but he’s got them to show him the way. Harvey got it after a while; the Commissioner’ll get it someday too.

So they spirit him away in the middle of the night to a borrowed warehouse from the Joker, but they’re nice to the Commissioner, of course, they’ve got food and drinks and everything, we’re all grown men here. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, and the Commissioner doesn’t look too surprised anymore.

“I see you two got out again,” he sighs, and Eames laughs, full-bellied and mirthful, what a riot the Commissioner is, he isn’t even terrified anymore, _brilliant!_

Arthur feigns hurt. “We came all the way here to see you, and _that’s_ all you can think of to say? Look,” he points to the wrapped-up package before the good Commissioner, “we even got your favourite cheeseburger this time. Mallorie Avenue, right?”

The Commissioner frowns, his thick eyebrows furrowing together like fuzzy, confused caterpillars, and Arthur wants to giggle.

“Extra ketchup too!” Eames hollers from his perch off to the side, gleeful as a schoolboy.

Gordon ignores him, frowns even more. “You blew up Myers Station,” he accuses. “The two of you killed over seventy innocent people.”

(It’s a righteous-fury speech again, the Commissioner loves to give them those, he’s such a lovable coot.)

“Turns yourselves in,” he bumbles on, “we can help you. You don’t have to live like this, in this - this _depravity._ You two can become good men.”

Really, the Commissioner’s lucky they like him so much, he’s the only one they’d ever let talk to them like that. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eames cup his chin in his hands, sulky and pouting.

“We _like_ being where we are,” Eames grouses, head tilted, muscles bunching under his yellow paisley abomination of a shirt, fucking hell, Arthur is going to _burn_ that sartorial transgression once this is over.

“Meaningless destruction? You glory in _this,_ killing innocents on nothing more than a whim?” the Commissioner counters, how adorable, look at him try to appeal to their moral, compassionate sides. “You destroy for no reason other than _because you can.”_

Eames sits up straight, eyes oddly intense, and Arthur could _kiss_ him now for the look on his face, the surety and certainty and unshakeable faith in them.

“It’s not about watching the world burn,” he says. “It’s about making sure that it still can.”

 

 

 

 

 

They head back to Arkham eventually. They have to, after all, Arkham’s their _home_ , the four walls and padded cells and white, white rooms their castle in rotting Gotham kingdom, complete with Dark Knight and court Joker and whole coterie.

The return party’s always so unnecessary and flashy. The guards pour out of Arkham like ants out of the queen’s hill, rifles and riot shields and full gear on, like the two of them are any match for four dozen armed men. (They are, shh, don’t tell anyone.)

“Hands above your head!” the guards yell. Arthur smiles prettily; it’s always such a welcome return they get, it goes a long way towards making a man feel like a million bucks, _thank you_ Arkham. Beside him, Eames begins to hum _Oh What A Circus_ , and they share a quiet giggle together before some nasty guards yank them apart, then oh, _oh_ , here comes the best part, don’t you love it too?

An angry look flashes over Eames’s face, and he takes out the guard holding him back with a jab to the solar plexus, snatching the riot pistol from his hip holster and killing another with a headshot. Arthur laughs, high and young, and Eames turns towards him for a brief second, two co-conspirators against the world and their phonies. 

Arthur breaks the necks of two other guards that try to drag them away from each other.

It’s such a lovely end to a wonderful vacation, now it’s time to head home.

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur likes solitary confinement. It’s not _ideal_ , it’d be better if Eames was here with him, but Eames is one cell over, and that’s not too bad either. It feels like they’re the only two real people in the world. (They probably are.)

Big Jim lumbers down the hallway, wheeling the meal cart slowly as he tosses their dinner trays through the slots in the doors, look at this grey slop, what haute cuisine is this, welcome to Casa de Arkham!

It’s alright, they’re out of solitary in a week, this is like a mini-vacation after a vacation, it doesn’t have to make sense. They’ve brought a bunch of new interns in, all baby-faced and pissing in their pants, how cute. Solitary’s a good time to smile through the peephole-gap in the metal door and make new friends.

(I mean, well, Arthur _tries._ It’s not his fault Eames doesn’t like it when he plays nice with the fresh young ‘uns, or that the last pretty intern he talked to ended up disemboweled.)

(They’d fucked over the sprawled entrails, you know. It had been _glorious.)_

Once they’re out of solitary, it’s back to their routine, holding court in the rec room, saying hello to old friends. Eames sulks a little when Dr. Quinzel tells him the Joker isn’t back yet, says he feels neglected. Arthur brings him a set of new paints; yellow from mustard seeds in the kitchen and green from guard uniform dye and red from a screaming young intern, sorry about that.

“Darling, you flatter me,” Eames purrs when Arthur presents him his gift, eyes half-hooded and lips curling into a sin-dripping smile, and the rec room is a masterpiece of yellow-green-red the next day, never mind that the red congeals into hardening black, that’s how the world goes, that’s how the die is cast, don’t complain about your lot in life.

 

 

 

 

 

Gotham’s not a pretty city. 

Hell, on good days, it’s not even a _nice_ city. It’s the seedy brother of glamourous New York, the middle child of Washington, the closeted skeleton of glitzy L.A. 

It takes a certain kind of person to live in Gotham. Arthur’s from Pittsburgh, Eames’s from London; Gotham’s the only place they can imagine living. You don’t become a part of Gotham, Gotham’s a part of you _first_ , then you move in and say hello to the gutters, to the scum, to the bleeding veins of this dead Goliath.

Gotham’s a dark city, a place where sinners go to stain their hands, where the insane run the puppet show, why not come for a visit? We’ve got everything you need; the Joker’s magic trick shop _(why so serious?)_ , Dr. Crane’s clinic _(Have No Fear!)_ , Poison Ivy’s Garden Emporium _(It’s only poisonous if you can’t take it!)_ , Eames’s art gallery _(Every painting is to die for!)_ , do remember to drop by, leave a tip on your way out.

(Sometimes they even have a special guest star, do look out for him, he’s Gotham’s very own _Dark Knight,_ Arthur wants to roll his eyes at the excessive drama in the title.)

Everyone’s got a different reason for staying in Gotham. The Joker squeals with laughter at his question, answers “Why Gotham? Why _not?”_ before toppling over a house of cards he spent two hours building. Dr. Quinzel purses her lips, sucks on her strawberry lollipop, grins and tells him, “Arty, sweetheart, Gotham’s heart’s in the right place, ya get me?” and goes off to help the Joker burn the toppled deck. Eames slides his tongue over his bottom lip, gets it obscenely wet, explains that “There’s nowhere else like it,” and that’s a clichéd answer, but Arthur likes it best, because it’s true.

Gotham’s a sick, sick place, but it’s fine, you’ve got to like the dark enough to stay here anyway.

Gotham’s lucky, she’s got Arthur and Eames and Arkham to liven her up.

Come visit, you’ll learn a thing or two.

 

 

 

 

 

Eames is getting antsy; the new Warden’s dumber and meaner than the old one, he’s banned paints and crayons and cards from the rec room, Arthur trembles with fury and resolves to make him _pay._

The new Warden’s not a smart one - _don’t antagonise the nutjobs_ , a sign in the staff lounge reads, he should really learn that it’s up there for a reason. Arkham fucks with you as much as you fuck with it, only it’s ten times worse and you won’t survive when she’s through with you. Arkham protects her own.

Arthur calls in a few favours, gets several kilos of C4 in, clears out the staff section at three in the afternoon with well-placed bribes and threats. The Warden - Mean Eugene, they call him - takes unsanctioned naps between two to four, lets the guards handle the crazies while he dozes behind his boxes of doughnuts and bags of chips. Arthur’s got his favourite switchblade, that’s all he needs for now.

It’s sadly easy to creep up on him, and from then on all bets are off. Arthur twirls the switchblade between long fingers, a maestro about to begin his symphony, and Mean Eugene sweats like a pig. Arthur sneers.

“Press that panic button, and I blow this room sky high,” he says, and Eugene’s hand snaps back from where it’d been creeping under the desk. Arthur perches himself on the desk, pins Eugene’s palm to the table with his blade. The fucker squeals like a spitted boar.

“Remove the rec room restrictions,” he continues, “and maybe I won’t kill you.” He makes Eugene type out an email to the staff one-handed, reads it over and clicks send. “I could have done that myself,” he elaborates, “but it wouldn’t have been as fun.”

Arthur places the detonator on the table between them, yanks the blade out from Eugene’s meaty hand. “Now,” he says, “you can go ahead and press that whenever you’re ready to die.”

“You said you wouldn’t - ” Eugene sputters, and Arthur rolls his eyes and cuts a finger off to shut him up.

“You’re _insane_ ,” Eugene froths.

Arthur frowns, looks down at the dismembered appendage, tries to fit it back just to see how the bones work. He shrugs when the bloody finger slips from his hand and rolls onto the ground.

“No,” he corrects. “I’m a sociopathic genius. It really doesn’t automatically equate to insanity." 

He rips Eugene’s shirt open, pulls out a Sharpie and contemplates the canvas before him. He draws a line down the sternum, a V meeting at the centre, and adds a smiley face above the heart for good measure.

“Now,” he begins, capping the marker with a showy flourish (Eames would be so proud at his showmanship, Arthur should have recorded this, it’s excellent rec room entertainment). “Where were we?”

Eugene lunges for the detonator, jams his thumb down on the button as he squeezes his eyes shut. Arthur tries to stifle his giggles, he really tries, isn’t it funny to watch insects squirm? 

“The main gate’s just blown,” he chortles, tears in his eyes. “Arkham’s out to play!”

He hums the theme from Jaws under his breath as he slices Eugene open, beaming like a schoolgirl crush when Eames presses a filthy kiss to his mouth when he presents Eugene’s heart on a china dish (sorry, honey, they ran out of silver platters) to him.

“Arthur, love,” Eames grins, “you shouldn’t have.”

“Happy anniversary to you too, you ungrateful ass.”

Eames feigns surprise. “Was it already? Completely slipped my mind, darling, apologies.”

(It’s fine, it’s all fine, Eames brings him Gotham on her knees, gunshots ringing on filthy streets and explosions rocking the ground beneath their feet, it’s beautiful, _beautiful.)_

The sun above Gotham swells with anticipation, paints the town in true colours, blood-red and violent orange, this is how Gotham is, this is their city, welcome to the closest you’ll ever get to hell on Earth, we love it here.

 

 

 

 

 

The unofficial guidebooks will tell you Gotham’s for the crazies, but see, insanity’s a relative thing, don’t listen to what they have to say. The world’s burning anyway, don’t wait around too long.

Arthur’s on the rooftop of their old apartment with Eames. It’s winter in Gotham, heavy snow smudging the black of the city into grey.

Wayne Enterprises is ablaze.

It’s fire in winter, it keeps them warm.

Come join us, we’ll toast marshmallows and spit the bones of your childhood out into the breeze, it’ll be a riot.

_(Don’t antagonise the nutjobs.)_


End file.
